


Pseudonym

by RunawayStray



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: (Except Woojin's still in SKZ), Alternate Universe - Canon, Changbin/Seungmin/Hyunjin-Club's bathroom, Chanlix Woochan and Changbin/Seungmin/Hyunjin happens within Jisung's writing, Chanlix-Library, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Jisung doesn't write about Jeongin, Library Sex, M/M, Minsung and Chansung happen in Jisung's reality, Semi-Public Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:14:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21929545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayStray/pseuds/RunawayStray
Summary: Jisung would be lying if he said he didn’t know when it started. The late night dreams clouded by sweats of fervour and sprinkles of utopia, the unwavering ache of desire and longing eclipsing his heart, turning it into nothing more than putty, the feeling of wanting to tear apart everyone of his members, letting them have him in anyway they wanted, anyway they needed. Jisung would be lying if he said he didn’t know the exact pinpoint, the exact moment, the exact second. And Jisung would be lying if he said he didn’t revel in his own hedonism, soak in its enticing waters, drown in them.OrJisung writes fanfiction about his members.And Minho's his biggest fan.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Han Jisung | Han, Bang Chan/Kim Woojin, Bang Chan/Lee Felix, Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know, Hwang Hyunjin/Kim Seungmin, Hwang Hyunjin/Kim Seungmin/Seo Changbin, Hwang Hyunjin/Seo Changbin, Kim Seungmin/Seo Changbin
Comments: 14
Kudos: 135





	1. There's No Aphrodisiac Like Loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome.
> 
> This is my first time writing smut, and it was a strange experience, but I hope it's ok?
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_"There's no aphrodisiac like loneliness, truth, beauty and a picture of you"_

Jisung would be lying if he said he didn’t know when it started. The late night dreams clouded by sweats of fervour and sprinkles of utopia, the unwavering ache of desire and longing eclipsing his heart, turning it into nothing more than putty, the feeling of wanting to tear apart everyone of his members, letting them have him in anyway they wanted, anyway they needed. Jisung would be lying if he said he didn’t know the exact pinpoint, the exact moment, the exact second. And Jisung would be lying if he said he didn’t revel in his own hedonism, soak in its enticing waters, drown in them.

It was dinner time. Slapped together ramen and steaming hot tteokbokki, prepared by Seungmin. A crowded dining table, Chan had somehow managed to convince the members to eat together for once. Jisung had been sitting there, indulging in a heaping of food and an abundance of drink, manners and civilities lost to a ravenous hunger, when he noticed the grace of beauty and the lure of enticement, Minho. Ravishingly stunning, and oh so very beautiful Minho. This wasn’t new, Jisung had seen the boy a million times before, always beautiful, always perfect. No, what caught his attention was the droplet of water slowly kissing its way down the soft expanse of his neck. The boy had somehow managed to miss his mouth, a waterfall now adoring his skin. The heat and fervour that had attacked Jisung as he watched the luxurious sight, had almost won over his composure. Nearly had him leaping over the table and taking Minho’s lips for all they were worth. 

That night was spent tossing and turning. Restless, he was invaded by the images of aqua against skin and eyes resembling crystals. It was enough to have him writhing with frustration, with thirst. Maybe that’s why he ends up with the flashing of a cursor blazing his eyes with artificial light, slowly egging him on, begging him to write. Fantasising wasn’t enough now, he’d spent days dreaming, years hoping, he needs something more, something fulfilling, something satisfying, something perfect.

He finds it through words. 

It started off innocent enough, simple fluff mixed with traces of innuendos. Innocent enough it could almost be described as childish. But innocence is short lived and lust is something unyielding. Changbin was the first. Describing him came so very easy to Jisung. The words came out effortlessly, like they just waiting to be freed. Jisung would often find his eyes lingering on the older male, biceps were so distracting, and Jisung was only human. And Hyunjin, with his plump lips and embodiment of perfection, was the perfect match, Seungmin was an added bonus, a needed extra, a binding ingredient. And now, with the beckoning of a flashing cursor, Jisung starts.

Hyunjin sits at an old bar, swirling ice over whiskey, soft sighs leaving his lips as he eyes the crowd. ‘Not him, nor him, definitely not him, maybe him?’ A too tight a t-shirt, bulging biceps begging to break free, _‘definitely him’_. 

Hyunjin saunters over with his signature charm, sultry eyes birthing a sea of desire, lips dancing a melody of sin. “Here alone?”

The raven-haired male eyes Hyunjin with interest, lips turning up into a smirk as he nods. “Here alone.”

Soft hands pull soft hands through crowds of sweaty people. Down, down, down, all the way down till a bright red door, _‘Men’s Bathroom’_. Inside stunk of piss and left much to be desired. Seems only inevitable for a man so beautiful, to be desecrated in a place so horrible. The door doesn’t have a lock, but the door doesn’t need a lock, as Hyunjin’s pushed back against it, closing it with a loud thump. Biceps man is strong, so fucking strong. Hyunjin’s lifted off the ground, soft gasps leaving his plush lips, so so fucking strong.

“Changbin”. Chokes out the shorter male, strained between breaths of fever. “I’m Changbin.”

“Hyunjin.” 

Changbin nods, eyeing Hyunjin’s plump lips, before latching onto them for dear life. Noses bump and teeth clash, but Hyunjin couldn’t care less, not when biceps man is angling his hips up, rubbing against his groin, shooting currents of pleasure ricocheting through his body.

The harsh blinking of fluorescent lights burn holes in Hyunjin’s corneas, leaving behind a hazy cloud of stars. The boy’s faded in front of him, blurring away into the distance. Looking into the mirror, his own reflection is staring straight back, lips kissed pink, cheeks flushed crimson, eyes dilated with lust, he looks fucked. Changbin’s lips brush against his neck, against his jaw, leaving mark after mark. Hyunjin’s head falls back in ecstasy, like he’s in a dream, a fool’s paradise, his own private haven, a piss-ridden, foul-smelling haven, but a haven nonetheless.

Changbin notices the boy staring, staring at himself, staring at him, staring at the clouds of hanging light. “You okay?”

Hyunjin’s head swivels down, latching on to the shorter male’s worried gaze, eyes redirecting their focus. “You’re so fucking hot, you know that?”

Changbin looks a little taken aback. Abruptness coming off as something new, but welcomed. Something he doesn’t hear too often, ‘hot’ sure, ‘fucking hot?’, he must be doing a number on this guy. “Am I?”

The lust isn’t hidden in either of their voices, it’s on full display, window shopping, ripe for the taking, and Hyunjin’s never wanted to be taken more than he does right now.

“Hottest dude I’ve ever seen.” 

Changbin knows it’s a lie, but it sounds so damn good coming from those plush pink lips.

Hyunjin’s peeled from the door and sat on top of the sink, slotting between his legs, are two much firmer ones. Lips find their way back to lips, tugging, pulling, caressing. Fingers dig into hips and moans trickle out. Hyunjin finds himself muttering out obscenities, something akin to lust filled ramblings. “Want you so fucking bad.” More, he needs more. “Need you so fucking bad.” Changbin would be a fool to deny such a beautiful man, and Changbin’s no fool.

His hand snakes a path down Hyunjin’s chest, stopping at each button, quick tugs setting them free. Pop, pop, pop, pop.... “Fuck.” A milky white sea of skin canvasses a chest of radiance. His hands can’t help but explore, mapping out every detail, discovering every marking, until they finally reach their destination, a belt buckle. 

Black skinny jeans hug Hyunjin’s legs tight, carving them into sculptures worth worshipping, worth getting on your knees for. So that’s exactly what Changbin does, gets on his knees and worships. 

Unbuckling the belt, pulling it loose. Fingers through loops, a zip comes down and Hyunjin’s head falls back as he’s set free. Changbin’s hand paces slowly, agonisingly slow, a snail’s pace meant to tease, and boy does it. Hyunjin’s begging for more, faster, harder. “Come on, biceps man.” 

Slip of the tongue, caught to late. Changbin doesn’t seem to mind. “Biceps man?” A wave of confidence melts over Changbin, so he flexes, puts on a show. “You like them?”

“Love them.”

“Show me.”

Hyunjin eyes him for a second before leaning forward, placing a tender kiss to Changbin’s toned left arm. Tender kisses soon turn into a lavish of moans against skin, before manifesting into a series of bites, purple mark after purple mark. Changbin moans with each one, like they’re blessings of a seventh heaven. His hands find their way down into his pants, zip coming undone, cock springing free, finally. Hyunjin notices and eagerly jumps off the sink, sinking down to his knees, it’s his time to worship, his time to shine. 

Changbin tastes of sea salt, semblance of the ocean, semblance of the thousand sweaty workouts he revels in daily. Hyunjin just about drowns in it, sinks to the bottom of Changbin’s inky abyss of an ocean, wants to drown in it, what better way to go out, knees dirtied in the dingy bathroom of a seedy club. Changbin’s fingers knead their way through a mop of black hair, every now and then stopping to tug, each time being rewarded with a choked moan from Hyunjin. If feels like bliss, like the first fuck of newlyweds or the last kiss before death, feels like a rollercoaster, up and down, up and down before boom, it ends. Because the bathroom door’s swinging open and a brown-haired boy’s walking through. He stops in his tracks, eyes wide like a deer stuck in headlights. He’s the total opposite of Changbin and Hyunjin, he’s not meant to be here, doesn’t belong here, not like them. Changbin’s rough and rugged, looks like he does this for a living, Hyunjin’s perfect but tainted, looks like he does this to survive. The new boy looks like he should be at a library studying for exams, but he’s not, he’s here, and he looks strangely comfortable with it.

He doesn’t speak and he doesn’t question, simply walks over before sinking to his knees too, opening his mouth in an invitation of paradise. Changbin knows he shouldn’t, knows this might be too far, but the boy looks so eager and Hyunjin looks so excited, thrilled to have extra company. Who is Changbin to deny such utopia?

If one mouth is bliss, then two is ecstasy. If two sets of moans creates a melody, then three creates a song of salvation. If two hands caressing skin feels like cloud nine, then four is a taste of heaven. And it tangles and tangles until it’s a mess of limbs, tongues and breathy moans, until it’s one.

Changbin’s not sure how they end up in a corner, but they do. His back faces the wall as he sits, Seungmin’s back pressed flush against his chest. Hyunjin’s in front, on his knees, mouth wrapped around Seungmin’s dick, little scraps of moans escaping now and then. Seungmin turns his head back, capturing Changbin’s lips with his own. Tongues break boundaries of fortitude, exploring every nook and cranny of each other’s mouth. Hyunjin soon takes notice, lifting his head and leaning over, he joins in. And a three way kiss is hard, but they make it work, they make it work so fucking good, it's like they invented it.

“Fucking need you inside me.” Hyunjin’s desire for who isn’t clear, but Changbin’s ready and rearing to go after what seems like hours of waiting, even if it’s barely been one.

They give each other a final chaste kiss before standing up. Changbin pulls out a condom from his wallet before sitting Hyunjin up on the sink. He watches as Seungmin sits up beside him, reaching down into his bag, pulling out a small bottle of lube, cherry scented, and it seems so very Seungmin, even if Changbin didn’t know a single thing about the boy, so very Seungmin. The viscous liquid wraps around Seungmin’s fingers as he squeezes the bottle. His lips slot over Hyunjin’s and Changbin moans at the sight, Seungmin and Hyunjin both chuckle at the noise. Seungmin’s fingers circle Hyunjin before a lone digit tentatively enters, pertaining a naive callowness, he proceeds at a slow pace, but Hyunjin doesn’t delve in the realm of soft and he’s soon pushing against Seungmin, grasping at his t-shirt, aching for more. Seungmin indulges him, a second finger, a third finger, in and out, in and out. Mesmerising to Changbin as he watches in awe, but being a bystander is no fun, especially to a game like this. 

He slides the condom down before nearing Hyunjin. With a cough he signals Seungmin to release Hyunjin from his realm of ecstasy. Seungmin’s fingers slide out with a pop before he stands up beside Changbin. His lips meet the shorter male’s before presenting a smirk. “He’s waiting.”

Hyunjin’s eyes linger on Changbin’s biceps as they flex. He slowly enters Hyunjin, it’s not long though before Hyunjin’s pushing for _more_ , faster thrusts, _and more_ , a better angle, _and more_ , sweat’s pooling. 

Seungmin’s hand snakes around Changbin’s chest from behind, lifting and pulling off the tight white t-shirt hugging his chest. Fingers meet pecs and lips meet biceps as Seungmin caresses Changbin’s body, who’s pumping in and out of Hyunjin with a lion’s pace. Seungmin’s lips brush Changbin’s ears, whispering words of encouragement. “You’re so good at this, bet you do this on the daily, don’t you?” Changbin whimpers at that, if only he knew.

“Bet you’ve fucked a hundred guys down here before, bet you live down here.” For a boy who looks like he lives with his nose stuck in books, Seungmin sure has a way with dirty words.

“Have you ever been fucked?” There’s a glint in Seungmin’s eye, and when a hand caresses the pink flesh of Changbin’s ass, he knows why.

Hyunjin perks up at Seungmin’s words and Changbin’s soft moans in response. He’s quick to add his own match to the flame. “Do you wanna be fucked, Binnie?” A nickname already? Strange, but oddly pleasant, satisfying.

“Yes, fuck yes!”

Seungmin’s laugh is stifled by the velvety taste of Changbin’s skin. “Ask and you shall receive.”

A feeling of paradisiacal-like rapture encases Changbin as Seungmin pushes a finger inside. He moves it around, getting use to his surroundings. Soon a second finger joins, and then a third. Changbin’s not sure how he does it, but he manages to keep his quick pace of fucking Hyunjin, not once dipping from his steady speed of quick thrusts. Hyunjin’s head is still pulled back in a vision of euphoria, fearless, weightless, breathless. Changbin’s position is much the same, breathless.

Seungmin’s fingers disappear, leaving Changbin with an empty feeling. “Come back.” He whines with hunger. Laughter leaves Seungmin’s lips as they scrape his ear. “So needy.” Changbin doesn’t have time for embarrassment, doesn’t have the energy for it, all he can muster is a whine of ferocity.

Seungmin’s back again, this time pressing something much larger against Changbin’s entrance. Easing in is solitude, sliding out is bliss. Changbin’s moans mixed with Hyunjin’s, mixed with Seungmin’s, is an honour befitting of gods. And under the harsh fluorescent lights, everything’s aglow. Eyes burn bright, sweat shines light, moans echo off the walls, encasing them in a symphony of melodies. Changbin wants it on repeat, wants it to be the only song he ever listens to for the rest of his life.

“I’m close.” Hyunjin’s lips tremble, on the brink of orgasm, on the waters of utopia, dipping one foot in. Changbin quickens his pace, as does Seungmin, his thrusts echoing through Changbin’s own, ricocheting through their bodies, punctuating Hyunjin with jolts of pleasure. Hyunjin’s wading now, swimming through utopia’s waters, so close. His eyes close shut, mouth turning up in a lure of bewitchment. Changbin grabs hold of his cock, pumping it. Hyunjin’s under now, drowning admist an ocean of crystal blue water, finally free. He comes with a moan of ‘Changbins’ and ‘Seungmins’. Strips of white decorate Changbin’s hand as he slows his pace, a final few tugs has Hyunjin squirming with over sensitivity. “Best,” moan, “fuck,” sigh, “ever.” Changbin’s never felt his ego inflate more than it does now. Could you blame him? Hyunjin is the sight of an angel, compliments from him are only deserving of the greatest beings, yet here he is, Changbin’s own secret oasis, Seungmin’s too.

“So beautiful.” Seungmin’s words burn fervour through Changbin’s ear who’s still so acutely aware of the dick in his arse. Seungmin starts moving again. And with the sight of the half conscious Hyunjin, high off ecstasy, and Seungmin’s low, brass moans in his ear, Changbin comes quicker than he thought, clenching around Seungmin, who soon releases as well, curls of pleasure unravelling until he slumps against Changbin’s back, breathing out a mix of obscenities and thank-yous.

Pulling out, Seungmin sinks to the bathroom floor, landing on his back, he stares up at the ceiling, dazed. Changbin soon follows, his own mind lost in daydreams of paradise. Hyunjin’s not long after, long legs, long arms, long drawn out sighs of contentment. Slowly their hands interlace, one by one, creating a chain of daisies. The overhanging lights acting out a sun, and as they bathe in their mirage of a beach, they can’t help but smile. Their own private paradise, so very fitting for them all. And lying there Changbin realises he wants to stay here forever, for whatever lays outside could never compare to what he has in here.

Jisung reached orgasm that night, faster and harder than he’d ever done before. Images of a faux story taking his mind to the edge of a cliff. Changbin, Hyunjin, Seungmin. Fuck! What’s he done, what’s he created, his own fantasies plaguing his every thought. But it felt so good, so natural, just right. He wants to keep going, needs to keep going, will keep going.

Chan sits across from him at breakfast. Head buried in his phone, eyes darting across a screen. His strong jawline pierces sanity, and Jisung’s hypnotised, it’s not the first time. There’s always been something about Chan, the way he dresses, the way he talks, the way his eyes form crescents when he laughs. But what hits Jisung the hardest, _what turns him on the most_ , is when he’s angry. Neck strained with tension, veins pulsating, eyes sharp and fierce. Sometimes Jisung taunts him that little bit longer, that little bit harder, just to see that side of Chan.

Felix sits down beside Chan. An arm drooping down over his broad shoulders. Chan looks up with a small smile, a gift returned by Felix. It’s in their eyes, burning with such vigour, Jisung can’t help but be inspired.

Love.

He quickly excuses himself, earning a confused glance from the two boys, but they shrug it off, returning to their goofy antics. Jisung disappears into his shared room. A day off means time, and time means writing, it’s all he finds himself doing lately, training, writing, training, writing. It’s time to feed the fans. The blinking of the cursor is a welcome sight for Jisung as he starts, a welcome oasis in the despairs of reality.

Chan’s eyes burn fire as they lay upon a cheery, blond-haired, sun-kissed boy. Hiding behind rows of bookshelves, encased in a world of words, his eyes study the pages in front of him. So beautiful, so ethereal, so perfect. Chan’s desire for perfection was no secret, and this boy seems to present it in its purest form, it’s only natural for him to try and pursue it. 

With his best attempt at seduction he waltzes over to the boy, lips turned up into a coy smile. Granted flirting while he was on the clock wasn’t the best idea, but when has Chan ever adhered to _‘best ideas’_ , it just wasn’t in his dictionary. And the temptation of lust is powerful, and Chan’s a weak soul. The library wasn’t even that full, slow, perfect, just like the boy.

“Hey.”

The boy looks up a little startled, but soon a glimmer of intrigue shines through his eyes, a small smirk playing at his lips. “Hey?”

“Come here often.”

The boy lets out a small laugh, voice laced with amusement. “This doesn’t look like a bar.”

“May as well be, because I feel drunk, drunk off you.” Chan’s pick up lines are cheesy at best and pathetic at worst, nethertheless the golden-freckled boy seems amused.

“You just finish reading ‘101 pickup lines’ or something?”

“Is it working?”

Something flashes through the boy’s eyes, a spark of requited lust, a glint of pure unadulterated excitement. And Chan knows he’s struck gold.

“Maybe.”

The boy sways as he inches closer, smiling before closing the gap of lips and air, taking all the room’s oxygen with him. He’s going to need it because boy does Chan go all in. No time for pleasantries, he’s on the hour and his boss could walk by any second now.

Swiping the golden-freckled boy’s lips he pushes past, tongues battling in a faux game of dominance, Chan knows he’s already won, but pretending is ever so fun. The boy moans quietly, slowly backing into the corner bookshelf. A gift of comfort is presented, because there’s a chair waiting for him. And it’s just so fucking perfect, Chan thinks, just like the boy.

The boy pulls back for a second, breathing heavily, he mutters a quick, “Felix,” before reattaching his lips to Chan’s, who’s smiling now, knows the name of the blond-haired beauty, trusts him.

Chan switches their position, sitting down on the chair before pulling Felix on top. Nestling into his lap, Felix fits like a glove, like he’s made for Chan.

“I’m Chan.” Manages to escape his lips.

“Knew it.”

Chan cocks his head in a sideways glance. “Knew it?”

Felix offers a teasing smile as his hand lazily drapes up Chan’s chest, resting on his pectorals. “You look so much like a fucking Chan, I just knew it.”

Chan scoffs at this, bemused by the boy’s antics, and flustered by the boy’s wandering hand. “What do you mean?”

A soft tsk leaves Felix’s lips, provoking the older male, teasing him. “It’s in your eyes, that fire, that eagerness, you practically undressed me the moment you first saw me. You just can’t hold back can you, even if you wanted to, even if you needed to.”

Felix reads him like a book, a fitting statement seeing as they’re surrounded by them. “You’re no different Felix, practically begging for it through your eyes, already on your knees.”

A chuckle leaves Felix’s lips at this. “Is that what you see, me on my knees, mouth around your cock, is that what you want?” The added extra of a squirm emphasises every word leaving Felix’s lips, and all Chan can think is _‘what a fucking tease'_.

“Yes, practically all I can see!” Chan’s patience has just about dissipated at this point, if he didn’t know any better, the boy would have already been a writhing mess of moans beneath him.

Felix senses this frenzy in Chan, and he’s soaking in it too, hungry for it. Hands make their way underneath Chan’s shirt, teasing, searching, finding. Jolts of electricity flow through Chan as Felix caresses his nipples, slight tugs, rougher pulls. Soon hands wander down, further and further, until gold. A belt comes undone and a hand dips under, pleasure is born. And Chan feels like he’s been transported to a tropical paradise. Nothing but crystal blue waves, golden sand, and the sun; an ethereal freckled boy smiling up a him. And fuck does it feel good!

Chan’s brought back to reality though by the sudden shush of Felix. Footsteps were nearing, closing in. Chan’s heart fills with dread and horror, he’s going to be caught, he’s going to lose his fucking job! But he’ll be damned if the golden-freckled boy wasn’t a good bet to lose his job on.

Just when hope seems lost, the steps of feet take a sharp turn, veering away from the boys. Felix sighs in relief and with renewed vigour, shoves his hand back down Chan’s pants again, earning a muffled shout of surprise from the older male. “Not gonna lie, thought you were tame at first, thought you were shy.” 

Felix chuckles. “You thought wrong, couldn’t be farther from the truth.”

Felix’s lips were back on his, in the blink of an eye. Tastes of honey and.... and wood? It may be the fact they’re surrounded by books, but he’s sure the boy tastes of freshly cut grass and hundred year old wood, like an ancient forest. A peaceful serenity, adorned by the occasional chirp of a bird, and the scurry of a wild animal. Felix was a whole goddamn forest, _fucking how?_

“You taste so fucking good!”

“Yeah, you want to taste more?” 

Chan knows what Felix’s implying, he’s already down on his knees, already pulling his dick out, already sucking on it likes it’s his life source. Fingers through hair, Felix moans with every lick, every tug, every stroke. He places a well needed hand over his mouth, remembering where they are, remembering they weren’t exactly alone. 

“Shh Felix, don’t want everyone to know, don’t want an audience do you? Or maybe you do, maybe you want them to see you getting fucked eyy? See you lost in me.”

Felix could only moan in response, his previous upper-hand on the boy, lost under the warmth of Chan’s mouth. Man was he good, worked in ways only pertaining to the most skilled, a professional. Felix knew he wasn’t the first, but he’ll be darned if this is the last.

Felix feels his orgasm stirring so with a quick finesse of skill, he flips them around once again. Chan sits on the chair, a little stunned at the boy’s quick actions.

“Feisty, aren’t ya?”

“Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

And Felix’s right, because Chan’s hard as a rock right now, so hard he almost cries out when Felix wraps his wet mouth around him. “So good, so warm, fuck I could die happy right now, die with your mouth around my dick.”

Felix moans around Chan’s cock at his obscene words, always the one for a bit of dirty talk. 

With one last bob of the head and a pop, he pulls off, a string of saliva forming a bridge between them both, between want and desire, between primal instinct and modern day love. With the quick drop of his pants and the swift retrieval of a condom from one of its pockets, Felix’s back on Chan’s lap, eyes glazed over in want. “You’re hands are so big, so large, feel great on my body.”

Chan knows the underlying meaning of Felix’s words, what he wants. Big hands mean big..... Chan’s happy to oblige.

Wrapping his hands around each side of Felix’s waist, Chan hoists him up, allowing the boy to align himself. A series of sinful moans and gasps adorn the air, Felix’s down, down and down until.... “Fuck, I’m right.”

Another sideways glance from Chan, sometimes he missed the seemingly obvious connections in logic. “What do you mean?”

“You’re big, so fucking big!”

Ego and lust inflates in Chan’s chest. Felix’s bouncing, Chan’s trying to muffle his moans. The air’s purified, and at the same time, tainted by spent breaths. Chan finds Felix’s lips again in a messy attempt at a kiss. Teeth clash teeth and foreheads bang foreheads, but it’s all lost to pleasure, nothing could ruin the moment. His boss could walk in, _his fucking mum could walk in_ , it wouldn’t matter, he’s too far gone, too far lost in everything that is Felix.

The chair rocks against the bookshelf, the quiet sound of wood-against-wood, maybe it’s not quiet, maybe it’s really fucking loud, so loud the whole library can here it. Chan honestly doesn’t know, he honestly can’t tell reality from fiction right now, and he honestly doesn’t care.

“Felix.”

“Hmm?”

“I think I’m losing my mind, and it’s your fault.”

Felix thrusts down in a particularly luscious manner. “Tell me more.”

“Think I’m about to pass out, maybe float away, end up in space. Would you come with me?”

It may be the heat of the moment, the dizziness of delirium, but Felix indulges Chan, even if it’s just for a second. “I’ll follow you to the end of the universe and back.”

That’s enough to have Chan falling, falling through his mind, falling through his heart, and coming up in spurts of alabaster white. 

Felix is falling too. Up and down, up and down until eventually he stills in a quivering shake of pleasure, a rhapsody of emotions spiralling through his body, stopping and starting the beat of his heart.

Felix is looking at him with a burning passion. “Fucking hell, what have you done to me? I’m fucking hooked, never would have even thought of doing this a day ago.”

Chan’s surprised. Felix’s earlier parade of intrepidity, now lost to a shine of innocence. The boy feigned it well, years of experience, like he’d done this a million times. There’s something endearing about it. The fact that Felix is so untainted, so angelic, so _perfect_. Something Chan’s going to cling onto, for the rest of his life.

Jisung falls asleep that night with fond memories of Chan, fond memories of Felix, fond memories of his members, each one of them, taking a special place in his heart, in his fantasies. And as his mind drifted off to oblivion, his own words rung in his head, like poems of deliverance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part's named after the song 'No Aphrodisiac' by The Whitlams. It's one of my all time favourite songs and I did the dishonour of naming this mess after it, I'm so sorry.
> 
> Once again, I hope you enjoyed reading!


	2. Praise You

_"We've come a long, long way together_  
_Through the hard times and the good_  
_I have to celebrate you, baby_  
_I have to praise you like I should"_

Minho’s not sure when it started. The quiet late night visits to the bathroom, _‘can the flush of a toilet down out the cries of an orgasm?’_ The permanent lump of guilt stuck in his throat, _‘do the others know, can they tell?’_ Eyes left lingering on well toned abs and sculpted jaws, _‘did they always look this good?’_ Minho’s not sure when it all started, however _‘why’_ is a question much easier to answer.

Why?

It’s those goddamn fanfics, seducing and enticing, leaving imprints of wild fantasies and questionable ideologies. Dragging him under his feeble river of morals, a siren’s song calling from the bottom, so he sinks and sinks until he’s stuck, somewhere between love and lust. And up at the water’s edge, staring straight back with eyes of jewels, stands Jisung. Irresistibly sweet, and oh so beautiful, Jisung. And from the depths of immorality he looks that much more radiant, that much more alluring. Eros sits on Minho’s shoulder, egging him on, seducing him to give in, because whose fault is it really?

His, or those goddamn fanfics?

Minho’s not really sure anymore, he’s wandered too far into the forest, ventured too far into the maze, lost between a wall of words and a single photo. Blue hair, cheery smile, sparkling eyes, a temptation of paradise. Hidden in a drawer, it lives between pages of forgotten literature. The only light it sees is from the stars sparkling in Minho’s eyes. And as pure as it is, Minho desecrates it in ways only fitting of a man completely lost.

It almost does Jisung justice, the photo. Good angle, better lighting, near perfect styling, almost. There was still something missing, that spark, that shine. But almost is as good as perfect when it’s the only thing you can have, a single photo and a sea of fanfics. Minho’s own secret paradise.

Twelve o’clock, dead of the night, curled under sheets of white; Minho’s a billionaire, swaying around in a silken red dressing gown adorning a capital M, and Jisung’s a boy strapped for cash, who yearns to see the world through the thick paned glass of a private jet. Three o’clock, break time, nestled in the corner; Minho’s a famous rockstar, plays sold out shows, sniffs candy off shiny mirrors, drinks whisky by the bottle, and Jisung’s a groupie, hops on for the ride, hops on to feel alive. Seven o’clock, dinner time, nearly caught; Jisung’s staring at him with his big brown eyes, a known weakness of Minho’s. “What are you reading?”

Spent too much time bathing in the harsh glow of his phone, become too careless, too obsessed.

“The news.”

_‘The fucking news, is that all you’ve got? Fucking idiot, may as well tell him!’_

“Just the news.”

If ignorance is bliss, then Jisung’s reeling in paradise, because he’s ever so unaware. Perhaps he’s lost as well, because while Minho’s been indulging in the realms of fantasy, Jisung has been too. What do they say? Respect your elders, honour them, pay homage. Jisung thinks so, Jisung wants to, Jisung will do.

Encase them in forever through words.

White marble bench tops with splashes of grey and gold for veins, cost Woojin a fortune. A stack load of cash and argument after argument with Chan. _‘Just get laminate, why do you need marble?’ ‘We’re not made of money Woojin, why do you want to waste it on something so trivial?’_

Chan had a point, had an essay of points. Woojin knows this, acknowledges this. But there’s something that Chan doesn’t get, something he doesn’t know. 

Woojin didn’t insist on buying them for some fine dine cooking, show them off as he entertained a group of their snobbish high-class friends. Didn’t need them for some vain attempt at impressing his high-strung parents, couldn’t care less for their opinion. No, the reason Woojin _had_ to have them, _needed_ them, _pleaded_ for them, was for the simple reason of wanting to be _fucked_ on them. Fucked on them like he was some rich house wife living in Beverly Hills, with a half-wit for a husband, and ungrateful swines for children.

It might seem tasteless, probably is at best, but Woojin feels stuck at forty, feels bored, feels old, feels stagnant. Wants to go back to twenty one, when him and Chan made love in the back of his old rusty ute. Wants twenty two, when him and Chan got a little too heated in the restroom of a five Michelin Star restaurant. Wants twenty three, when him and Chan squished into the tiny restroom of a plane, and joined the mile high club. Middle age has brought tedium and predictability. The same, day in and day out. Eat, sleep, work, repeat, no time for spontaneity, no time for fun. Woojin’s just about had enough of it. So when they finally scrounged together enough money to build their dream home, Woojin made sure to add little trinkles of his fantasies dotted throughout. A lavish hot tub, a large wine cellar, the largest bed he could find, and, for the cherry on top, his marble bench tops.

Tonight’s the night. He’s got it all planned out. Drops the kids of at five to a friend’s house, serving up some excuse about a date night. Arrives home at five thirty, gives the house a swift clean, making sure to polish his awaiting marble. Nestles into his favourite floral armchair at five fifty five, crossword in tow, a small smirk resting in anticipation. Anytime now.

Six o’clock on the dot, Chan steps through the front door. White button up shirt, a black coat draped over his arm, and dyed blond hair, already sprouting a few stray grey strands. He looks tired, weary, but somehow still so perfect, he looks just as beautiful as the first time Woojin saw him. 

A wide smile of delight grows on his face as he notices Woojin sitting in his beloved floral armchair, eyes studying a crossword.

“Hey.”

“Hey, how was work?”

Chan teaches a class of six year olds at a nearby primary school. Something both taxing and rewarding.

“Same old, same old.”

Woojin hums in agreement, he’s heard it all before. Some kid deciding it was a good idea to decorate the walls in marker, another kid thinking the garden needed some dire remodeling, but hey at least there’s Seonhee with their mother’s cookies in hand every snack time, always making sure to offer their _‘favourite teacher’_ a bite. Woojin’s heard all the stories, every single one, can recount them as if they were his own. Chan trudges in the swamps of mundanity just as much as Woojin does. He needs it too, this match, this fire, needs his flame to be reborn, needs to feel alive.

Woojin indulges in the finer things in life, fine wine, good cheese, the way Chan’s biceps flex when he sheds his clothes, the way Chan trembles under the simple touch of lips and skin. Woojin’s much of an addict when it comes to luxury, likes to revel in its pretentiousness. Used to drown in it, used to be adventurous, kinky, erotic, _‘where haven’t we had sex Chan?’_ , but a family life brings reserve and routine, brings structure.

Chan’s barely just taking his shoes off when Woojin reaches his side. Fingers finding their way to Chan’s chest before dancing a waltz upwards, finally resting on a tired, well worn cheek. “You look so tired.”

There’s confusion in Chan’s eyes, something puzzling. Woojin’s caring, but Chan always looks tired, asking if he was everyday would be redundant. Something’s wrong. “Long day. Are you okay?”

“Yes of course, why?” Every word leaves Woojin’s lips with a smirk, his hand slowly moving away from Chan’s cheek to snake its way back down his chest, resting on his pecs. “I’m feeling amazing!”

Snap! A pearly white button breaks free from Chan’s shirt, landing with a soft cling on hardwood floors. Left behind is the soft tease of pale chest, and Chan’s wide brown eyes open in shock. “What the fuck Woojin, this is my good shirt!”

“Hmm.” Woojin’s response isn’t far from delirious, lost in his own lust and desire, Woojin wants to play dirty, wants to play rough, wants to finally break free. “I think you look better with it off.” 

His hands are quick, latching onto the second button in a flash, and with another sharp tug, Snap, the button’s ripped from its seams.

Chan grabs Woojin’s hands tightly, stopping the older male’s path of destruction, his eyes are clouded over in worry but his lips are slick with hunger, and Woojin can see the excitement hidden behind the walls of unsurety. “Woojin, seriously you’re scaring me, what’s wrong?”

Woojin offers up a coy half-smile before lacing his arms around Chan’s broad shoulders. “Do you remember that time in Paris when we made love in the rolling hills of the countryside. Or that time when we fucked in the cinema, that was fun, nearly got caught didn’t we?” Woojin’s laughs echo throughout their quiet house, taunting Chan in a way he hasn’t been taunted for years.

“Yes I remember, why?”

“Don’t you miss it, the excitement, the adventure? Don’t you miss not knowing what I was thinking or what I was going to do next? I would surprise you, remember? Let you fuck me any place you could dream of, any place I could dream of. Don’t you want that back?”

“We’re not teenagers anymore Woojin. Life moves on, we’ve moved on. Where’s this coming from?”

Woojin’s fingers press hard against Chan’s chest, leaving red imprints kissing the skin. He pushes him back, and back, and back, until he falls down into Woojin’s floral armchair, looking like a perfectly wrapped present, all for Woojin.

Sitting down and straddling Chan’s legs, Woojin returns to his earlier position, hands laced over broad shoulders, and head against heart, drinking in the melodic beat of Chan’s lifeblood.

“I know you feel it too Chan, I know you miss it. Do you remember that time before we had gotten together? We were in that stupid haunted house, and you were so terrified you got fucking hard? And I helped you out, and I told you it was because I’m a good friend, I told you it meant nothing, but we both knew that was a lie, because I was breathing a little too hard, and you were moaning a little too loud, and we both knew it meant everything.”

Woojin feels the effect of his warm words rise through Chan’s jeans. He’s starting to win him over, can feel his heart beating twice as fast now.

“You know how hard it is for me Chan, know I struggle with self-control. Just last week when we were visiting your parents in Australia, I nearly fucking jumped you on Bondi! Too bad the beach was so crowded, and too bad your parents were there.”

Chan lets out a loud groan of arousal. “Fuck Woojin, we have sex all the time!”

“Vanilla sex.”

“You’ve never complained.”

Humming in agreement, Woojin ponders over Chan’s words. “I think I’ve become discontent in my old age, a midlife crisis of sorts, we’ve become stagnant Chan, we’ve become boring.”

“You’re not that old Woojin, you’re still twenty one in my eyes.”

Woojin laughs. “Always the one for sucking up, aren’t you Chan?” 

“Only to you, honey.”

Woojin’s nose crinkles in disgust at the pet name. “Stop, you know I hate when you call me that, makes me feel old.”

A small laugh accompanying a weary sigh leaves Chan’s lips. He wraps caring arms around Woojin’s back, who’s still nestled into his chest like a teddy bear. Rubbing soft circles down Woojin’s spine, Chan hums in contentment. “You can’t run away from old age Woojin, no matter how damn hard you try, it’s going to catch up.”

Woojin’s head lifts up, locking eyes with Chan, pleading. “I know, let me just bathe in youth for a little while longer please, just one last time.”

A reply is dismissed for a simple peck on the lips, as Chan pours his heart and soul out through unspoken words. Woojin, his one and only, from the beginning of time, to the end of time itself.

“I have an idea.”

And just like that Woojin’s lifted off in a second, and Chan’s already halfway to the front door. “Where are you going?”

A childlike playfulness is given new life in Chan’s eyes, something Woojin hasn’t seen in a long time.

“You’ll see.”

With a loud bang, Chan shuts the front door behind him, disappearing in a glance. Woojin’s stunned at his abrupt absence, _what the hell is he doing?_

Reservations and confusion are lost to curiosity when the shrill scream of a doorbell rings through the house. Looking through the gap in the curtain, Woojin can see the scruffy mess of Chan’s blond hair, and that signature playfulness in his smile. 

It seems so surreal to Woojin, looking out the window Chan looks like a stranger, like a mere passerby in Woojin’s life. He finds himself imagining what it would’ve been like if they’d never met. If he never found out about Chan’s secret obsession with late night marathons of trash TV while he drank Rockstars out of wine glasses. If he never got the chance to see those adorable dimples and hear that melodious laugh. Woojin wonders if he would’ve been able to find someone else just as amazing as Chan. And now, with Chan’s sparkling eyes of topaz, staring back at him through thick paned glass, Woojin dabbles in the likelihood of that answer being no.

The doorbell buzzes again, and Chan’s doing a little jiggle side to side, impatient.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Opening the door, a fresh breeze of warm summer air graces Woojin, leaving him feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, the fire in Chan’s eyes does much the same. “What are you doing?”

His question is ignored by an overly brass greeting. “Hi Mr. Kim, I’m Chan, your plumber.”

Woojin just about can’t believe his ears. “I’m sorry, my what?”

“I’m Chan, your plumber. You called for one, don’t tell me you forgot Mr. Kim.”

If Chan’s slow then Woojin’s torpid, because it takes him a few seconds to cotton on to Chan’s game, once he does though, he’s eager to play.

Beckoning Chan inside, Woojin doesn’t even try to hide the sly smirk forming at his lips. “Come inside, you’re late.”

“So sorry sir, I was stuck in traffic.”

Shaking his head, Woojin tsks. “Not good enough, you’re going to have to repay me in some way.”

“Of course sir, of course.”

Making his way inside, shyness is feigned in Chan’s eyes, a childlike innocence. The wide-eyed naivety enthrals Woojin, heart skipping beats, face heating up, a warm current curling its way up through his stomach. There’s just something about seeing Chan act so naive, so inexperienced, so vulnerable, something so delectable. And even though it’s a lie, an act, Woojin’s still spellbound, mesmerised.

“You said your kitchen sink needs fixing?”

“That’s right.”

Chan offers up a simple hum in acknowledgement before making his way over to the sink. Woojin follows behind, eyes lingering on a luxurious sight of tight arse, swaying side to side. Chan’s always been the one to put on a show, always the tease.

The sink’s fine, in tip top shape actually. But reality’s no fun without a little imagination. Woojin treasures this, lives by it. The sink’s broken in his mind, obliterated, so far destroyed, only full bloomed lust can save it, bring it back to life, and Chan’s going to save it, save Woojin.

“Let me have a look at it. I’ll have it working in no time Mr. Kim, no time at all.”

Woojin nods his approval, and Chan bends down, opening the cabinet door below the sink. Woojin may be lost in desire right now, but he knows Chan’s parade is true, a performance just for him, because Chan’s leaning over farther than he needs too, and Chan’s back’s arching lower than it should, and Woojin swears he can hear quiet rings of laughter taunting his mind. 

Chan’s still lost in the cupboard, arse in the air, jeans hugging tight, and Woojin may be crude, but if Chan’s arse was an ancient sculpture of alabaster white, Woojin would have it displayed in an art museum.

“I think you need to go in further Chan, the problem’s rooted in deep, do you think you can solve it, mend it back together?”

“I’ll try.”

Chan takes Woojin’s orders like they’re an offering of food on a silver platter, like they’re his key to survival. He leans in further, ventures in deeper, until he’s not sure he can sink any more.

“You look perfect like this Chan, beautiful from any angle.”

Woojin kneels down, crouching beside Chan. A firm hand finds the curve of Chan’s arse, caressing it like it’s a sacred artifact.

“Tell me Chan, do you like your job? Always on your knees, always on your hands. Bet it lingers in your dreams at night, bet I’ll linger in your dreams at night.” Woojin’s hand continues to paint a picture of Chan’s arse.

“Plagues my mind like a virus, breaks me down till I’m nothing more than putty. I still dream about you Woojin, like I did when we were teenagers.”

Chan’s words encase Woojin’s heart in a fervent heat, burning passion making its way home. And Chan’s words could be rewritten in the stars, in golden ink and gilded fortune, and Woojin would bathe in their glory, slowly melting away. But this fantasy tastes too delicious, and Woojin may be delirious, but he won’t let it be broken.

“We didn’t know each other when we were teenagers Chan, we only just met today.”

“Of course, silly me. Sorry Mr. Kim.” Chan’s voice is muffled by the surrounding cabinet walls, still stuffed inside.

“Have you found the problem yet Chan? Still think you can fix it?”

“I can, I’ll restore it, bring it back to life.” Chan pulls out, and Woojin’s hand loses a prized possession, but it’s soon regained by the look in Chan’s eyes, a look of cherishment. Standing up, they both stare each other down in hunger.

“Tell me Chan, I have a problem too, it’s hard and ruthless, and oh so very demanding. Think you can fix it too, think you can handle it?”

“Bet I could.”

“Show me.”

Chan takes a step closer to Woojin, eyes raking over his body, stealing every souvenir it offers.

“Need to find it first.”

He closes in further, so close, Woojin can feel heat radiating off embers, a hot breath fanning his cheeks. It flushes them crimson, makes him feel like a blushing virgin.

Chan places a soft palm against the beating heart in Woojin’s chest. Leaves his mark, claiming it. Slowly his hand moves downwards, snaking a path of jewels, as if Woojin’s body was a treasure map. And Chan’s never sailed the seven seas, but if Woojin’s body was the ocean, and his eyes the sea, then Chan’s sailed them all.

“Is it here?” Chan stops at a shelter of cloth, Woojin’s nipples blooming from below. He bids a soft tug through the fabric, earning a soft gasp from Woojin.

“Close, but no.”

His hands break free from their teasing ways, though the interlude is short-lived, because Chan’s now trailing a line of poetry down a paradiscial chest. It’s river of rhymes finish at the hem of Woojin’s shirt.

“Maybe it’s here?” 

Chan climbs under the veiling cloth, his hands finally finding the joy of skin against skin, free from the restraints of fortitude. Woojin’s breath heightens, soft stuttering gasps leaving his lips. Chan’s touch feels like fire against his skin, branding its mark upon a blank canvas. Woojin loves it, wants it to never end. It reminds him of all their sleepless lust-filled nights they spent exploring every inch, every corner, of each other’s body. Reminds him of his garden, where charred roses brooding in ash, are reborn through a lavish of liquid sunshine.

Tracing the embroidered lines of well-defined abs, Chan’s hands creep upwards, every now and then stopping to relish in Woojin’s squirms of over-sensitivity.

“Is it under here, hiding from the sun, the stars, hiding from me? Does it live here?”

Woojin just barely manages to rasp out a reply. “Partly, it has many homes. It exists in me, it exists in _you_.”

Chan hums and Woojin’s heart is missing way too many beats for it to be healthy. Chan moves in closer, lips now brushing Woojin’s cheek. The colours he seeks are crimson and ruby, and he finds them in the mural slowly inking its way up Woojin’s neck.

“You’re blushing.”

All Woojin can offer up in return is the grace of a sinful whimper. Mind lost to every charred syllable kissing his cheek, leaving a hot flush to simmer in its wake.

“Tell me Mr. Kim, do you have a husband?”

Teasingly, Chan brushes a thumb over Woojin’s bottom lip, purposefully slow, it tempts him into a fervid pleasure. Another soft hum in response leaves those same lips. The soft noise sending a current of vibrations running down Chan’s thumb, causing marbled gold to trickle into his veins.

“I do.”

“Where is he?”

Slowly Chan’s hand traces a path back down Woojin’s chest. Stopping to drink in the lively beat of his heart, travelling a hundred kilometres an hour, nearly crashing in fatigue.

“He’s out.”

Bringing out playful criticism, Chan tsks a judgemental laugh, eyes locking onto Woojin’s, pulling him into a trance. Woojin’s transported to Elysium. And he’s seen those crystal orbs a million times before, always before he falls, always before he drowns. Chan’s hand is his only saviour, reaching out in liberation, and now, as it traces the simmering tempo of fire burning Woojin’s heart, it saves him once again.

“And what would he say if he saw you like this, crumbling under the hands of another man?”

“He’d crush you, strip you of your worth, destroy you.”

A soft laugh leaves Chan’s lips. “He sounds pretty fierce, this husband of yours, sounds like he loves you dearly.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so.”

“You’ve never met him.”

“Don’t need to, I can see him burning through your eyes, can see his reflection. And it’s funny, because he looks just like me.”

Woojin’s burning up and when overwhelming desire takes over, his hand lurches forward, grasping Chan’s collar in a tight iron grip. His head moving to rest in the crook of Chan’s neck, drinking in the familiar scent of red wine. Right here, Woojin feels safe, and right now, Woojin leaves fear behind.

“Can you make love to me as passionately as he does? Like the first time, old TV in the background screening a rerun of _Buffy_ , his filthy old couch, picked up off the side of a road, scratching holes into our backs. And it was awkward, needy, amateurish, and poorly thought through, but it was _real_ , because that’s what made it so fucking perfect, it felt so _real_.”

“Is that what you want, me to fuck you like it’s the first time?”

“It _is_ the first time.”

Chan’s cheek nestles against the soft river of Woojin’s hair, a sweet strawberry scent bestowing his mind. “It’s always the first time.”

Woojin’s head looks up, and Chan’s lost. Woojin’s lips whisper poems, and Chan’s gone. Woojin’s eyes beg for ravishment, and Chan’s drowning. Patience can wait no longer, as lips meet lips in a long awaited kiss, the pent up release of lust breathing satisfaction to the desire they both crave. And if it’s reserved and naive at first, then it disappears in a second when Chan’s tongue swipes fire against Woojin’s bottom lip, aching for entrance, for acceptance. He’s let him in a thousand times before, so much so it’s a second home for Chan, a safe haven. And he explores every room, every corridor, a grand hall, a ball room, a kitchen; honey and mint, a bedroom; love and lust, Chan’s lost in every hallway, every room, every corner, lost in every chamber, every part of Woojin’s heart.

Somewhere in the distance the tick of a grandfather clock chimes six thirty, a lawnmower roars, and shrill laughter can be heard spewing out from next door, but all Chan can hear is the muffled gasps of Woojin’s stuttered, hot, breathy moans, it’s all he wants to hear, all he needs to hear.

Fire dissipates when his lips break free from Woojin’s in a needy whine. His hands rest on hips and his head dips. Woojin’s hands travel a path through Chan’s messy blond locks.

“Do you like them?”

Chan’s confused, perplexed, his head lifts up to lock eyes with Woojin. “Like what?”

“My bench tops, they’re marble, didn’t you notice? I had to run a marathon and climb a mountain before my husband finally agreed to buy them. He’s ever so stubborn sometimes.”

“He sounds rational, sounds reasonable.”

“Maybe, but he doesn’t know why.”

If Chan was lost before, now he’s adrift at sea, because Woojin’s playing a game he’s not known since they were young, a guessing game which always ends in Woojin getting what he wants, when he wants, where he wants, no matter the reason why. Chan may be strong, but underneath Woojin’s temptress-like power, he’s reduced to nothing more than a mere feather. How far can he fall before he reaches rock bottom?

“Doesn’t know what?”

Woojin’s hands lose their grip on Chan’s blond locks as they slip down, looping strong fingers through Chan’s jeans. Pulling closer he feels arousal grow through friction, feels close to a denied ecstasy.

“Doesn’t know I bought them for the sole purpose of being fucked on them, like some rich, selfish housewife living in a mansion. Cold marble feels like ice against warm skin, and I wanna feel ice.”

Chan sees it now. The secret yearning, the reason behind their boundless arguments, the hidden desire in Woojin’s eyes since the first time he brought up the idea. Can finally see why, and it’s tasteless, materialistic, but Woojin relishes in the finer things in life, and so does Chan; fine wine, good cheese, the way Woojin’s biceps flex when he sheds his clothes, and Woojin’s soft, songlike whimpers of pleasure.

“I’ll give you what he can’t, I’ll give you everything.”

Woojin’s feet leave the floor as he’s hoisted up onto the bench by Chan’s strong, firm hands. They don’t leave his side, Chan’s grip iron like, instead they tighten, and tighten until Woojin’s head falls back in a painful pleasure. It’s something he’s always loved, Chan’s strong hands, offering up quiet comfort and satiating pain through a well built grip. He’s felt them around his waist, around his neck, for as long as he can remember, and the day Woojin feels them no longer, is the day he dies.

“Does this remind you of him? Does he hold you like this?”

“You know he does, you know everything about him.”

“If that’s true, then I know you like this too.” Chan’s hands scrape their way past Woojin’s sides. Back, back, back till they reach the curve of Woojin’s spine. Slowly Chan’s fingernails dig in, soft and tender then harder and harder, until red imprints leave calligraphy scarred upon a canvas of white. His hands pull and his fingers embellish lines down Woojin’s back. And all that can be heard in the modest kitchen of their humble abode, is the melodic cry of Woojin’s strangled moans.

“Fuck, Chan!”

“Hmm, Mr. Kim?”

“Feels so fucking good, your hands, your fingers! Feels like his!”

Chan’s hands return to the crest of Woojin’s chest, before replaying the same melody of long drawn out scratches. Red blooms and Woojin’s lips are kissed pink, and Chan’s intrepidity obscures sanity, and Woojin doesn’t care. But teasing can only last so long before unyielding lust takes over. The buckle of Chan’s jeans is gripped tight in a tug of ardent need. It’s undone in a second, pulled through loops, its zip comes loose, and Woojin’s hands abseil down the steep cliff that is Chan’s body, ready to fall off the edge.

Chan bites his bottom lip, eyes scrunching up in pleasure, as Woojin’s hand dips beneath silky fabric wrapped tight around soft arse. His fingers find Chan’s cock, and in swift tugs, he jerks with such vigour, if Chan was a weaker man, he may cry out for him to stop, but Chan’s no frail old man, and he would lying if he said he doesn’t like it like this.

“Tell me what you want me to be, Mr. Kim.”

He laughs at Chan’s drunken words, and although he’s heard them before, knows Chan loves those sickly sweet poems, they still sound so new, so enticing.

“I want you to be my divine oasis in the desert, saving me in a hand’s reach. Want you to be the relentless waves of the sea, drowning me underneath a passion so fierce, so intense, I cannot escape. Want you to be my moon, my sun, the stars. I want you to be every single part of me.”

If Chan expected a simple answer, a simple desire, he’d have severely misjudged Woojin, but Chan’s known him a lifetime, beyond reach is the exact answer he expected.

“Want you to be a police officer that plays dirty, morals lost, fucking me in the back of his car while red and blue lights illuminate the sky, and shrill sirens deafen my ears. Then you can be my professor, and I’ll be your student, shy, naive, innocent, and you’ll teach me everything and anything, teach me how to feel alive.”

Woojin strokes Chan’s length with racing vigour, shifting between painfully slow and unbearably fast. Caressing a path of luxury down flush skin. Chan’s moans soon turn brittle, shattering with every breath, fine china kissing cold tile. “Tell me more Mr. Kim.”

“Want you to be my gardener, then my doctor, then my slave, then my saviour. Can you be that Chan, can you be my everything and anything all at once?”

“I can try Mr. Kim, try to be worthy of your love.”

Woojin’s hand resumes its quickened pace, causing Chan’s breath to catch in the depths of his throat, a choked noise, barely resembling a moan, richoteching off the walls. Woojin revels in this, the switching of dominance, the way they flip flop. Loves seeing Chan tower over him with a torrid appetite, just as much as he loves seeing him crumble under Woojin’s own power of persuasion. Loves the low rasp of Chan’s growls, the same way he loves his whiny, needy moans. Loves seeing him order for more as much as seeing him beg for more. And that’s what he’s doing right now, under the power of Woojin’s grasp, he’s crumbling and falling into a pile of ashes.

“Woojin.” He rattles out in a long drawn out sigh.

“Nuh-uh, it’s _Mr. Kim_.” Woojin’s hand adds temper to his response by an extra forceful jerk of Chan’s cock.

“Sorry, _Mr. Kim_.”

“I don’t think sorry’s good enough Chan, think you need to be punished, think you need to get on your knees for me.”

Chan follows and sinks to his knees without a hint of hesitation. Woojin slides off the bench top, landing on his feet, standing tall. His fingers reach the zipper of his tight jeans, and locking eyes with Chan’s hungry glare, he pulls the metal down at an agonisingly slow pace. Chan can feel wet pools of saliva nearing the corners of his mouth, like he was some dog, some animal. But Chan’s learnt to be patient, a needed quality in life, learnt to wait for Woojin.

“Is this really a punishment Mr. Kim? Because right now, it honestly feels like a dream.”

Strong, sturdy fingers grab Chan’s jaw roughly, angling his face upwards to marvel at a portrait of splendour. “It can be whatever you want it to be, Chan. That’s the beauty of it.”

With what seems like the finality of granted permission from Woojin, Chan finds his hands tugging the edges of veiling denim down soft, enticing legs. Reaching the final stop of rocky tiles, his head angles twelve, before plush red lips meet bittersweet skin, wrapping around with aching desire. Woojin chokes, Chan chokes, they both choke, then they both fall, landing in the realm of a utopian paradise. Woojin’s hands find Chan’s blond locks in sharp tugs, something Chan’s always loved, painful, rough tugs. Lets him feel the desire of Woojin’s lust travel through them, like a current of electricity.

Woojin’s decadent ways are nothing new, something that’s always existed, breathed through him in their own crazed breaths, shoots through his amber eyes, targeting Chan in a sniper shot. And Woojin’s sybaritism is an old friend, something that lives in the dungeons of his mind, lives in the chambers of his heart, lives in the gold veins of his marble bench tops. Chan never mars Woojin’s desires, always lets them bloom, a full season of roses tempting him in every way.

Seeing Chan like this, bloodshot eyes watering, cheeks hollowed, lips stretched around the length of his cock, reminds Woojin of just how fucking lucky he is. Fellow friends who drowned in lovelorn lust; the girl from his yoga class on Tuesdays, the guy who sits next to him at work, the old lady across the road who’s never been in love. Miss out on relishing in the luxuries that Woojin has the opportunity of experiencing. Miss out on the feeling of Chan’s warm, hot mouth, cloaking them in fire. Miss out on the pleasure of Chan’s esurient, hard dick skilfully fucking them into oblivion.

Woojin walks a primrose path, with Chan’s warmth endowing him in solitude. He’s pushing further, hands begging for more, but Chan can’t go any further, he’s choking on delirium and he can’t breathe, but he loves it, this torture, this beautiful kind of torture. Woojin describes his madness as stubborn epicurean, Chan’s own prurient fantasies reborn through an inferno, and he’s not wrong, not in the slightest.

But Chan’s need to dominate still yearns to be in control, and it’s soon too much to handle, so he leaves Woojin’s cock with the frore slap of cold air. Lips leaving a string of saliva bridging him and a cherished treasure.

Chan’s eyes look up with a smoke and mirrors innocence, blinking away the couple of astray tears resting in their corners. With a sly smile and coyness presented through faux purity. Chan’s breath sermonises a taunting inflection. “I think you need to be punished too, Mr. Kim. Cheating on your husband is pretty deplorable, is it not?”

“Hmm, you’re right. He would be pretty mad, think his punishment would be pretty rough, think he would destroy me.”

“I think he would too.”

Chan stands to his feet, pushing Woojin down to his knees, he pulls Woojin’s head forewords, and Chan succumbs to ecstasy. “I think, Mr. Kim, your mouth was created just for me.”

Mumbling around Chan’s cock, Woojin groans in response. He would never be one to deny it, never has been. He was made for Chan, and Chan was made for him, it’s the way it’s always been, the way it always will be.

Chan’s moving faster now, hips bucking up at a hypersonic pace, swallowed whole. Woojin takes it well, takes it like he always has, perfectly. And it’s no secret that Chan’s crude when he wants to be, licentiously devilish, because the only way his lewd actions could be described as, was the desecration of Woojin’s mouth, of Woojin’s throat, of Woojin’s sanity.

Choking, Chan moans out in stuttered breaths of carnality. “You take it so well Mr. Kim. Are you this good, _this well behaved_ , for your husband too?”

And once again, all Woojin can offer in return is a muffled yes. Because Chan’s cock is saccharin, and Woojin’s suffocating, quite literally. He pulls off, stands up, and reattaches those same lips that just moments ago were drinking in wine, to Chan’s lips. His hand returns to his own cock, renewing an assault of pleasure, soon he leans forward, and with the same hand currently stroking himself, he wraps around Chan’s own erection, joining them together through rugged draws, hand in hand, cock to cock, riding the same ecstasy.

Woojin’s built Chan up from ruination a million times before. Rebuilds him to a whole, just so he can demolish him once again, and each time Chan succumbs willingly, practically begs for Woojin to devastate him, to ruin him. The pleasure Woojin takes in seeing Chan lost to lust, lost to him, is something he holds close to his heart, hides it in its secluded chambers. And now, Chan is screaming it through cherry eyes and spent breaths. Woojin’s at his jaw, at his neck, with sharp teeth and soft lips, leaving purple marks to decorate a stripped canvas. He paints a mural so beautiful, Chan wishes the ink would never run dry.

“Have you found the problem yet Chan, do you know how to fix it?”

Chan’s own lips find themselves decorating Woojin’s neck too, bedding a garden of violets. “Think I know how.”

“Hmm, and what’s that?”

“Can’t stitch it back together, can’t sew it back together.” Tantalising tingles leave Woojin’s neck shivering. “Can’t tempt it out, can’t lure it out, the only way to fix it, I think, is to _fuck_ it out. Bring you to a satisfaction so rich, you cannot help but fall.”

A hand caresses Chan’s cheek tenderly, and a fervent heat simmers in anticipation. “You know your stuff Chan, know me so well.”

Woojin’s asked him to fix it, repair something broken, and Chan knows why he’s here, why he’s always been here, for he’s the only one who _can_ fix it.

Woojin’s lifted to the bench again, the cool marble kissing his bare arse in a sharp hiss. His back soon follows, falling and landing upon the hard surface. And Woojin lies on the back of Chan’s hand, for he knows how Woojin likes it, needs it. Honest, real, rough, _raw_. And Woojin’s felt it a thousand times before, the harsh sting, a welcome familiarity in life, it burns through his body as Chan pushes inside, and even though to an outsider it seems painfully fast, to Woojin it’s aganisingly slow, so with a grunt of appetence he pushes against Chan in a desperate attempt to fall further. Chan indulges him, like he always does. Woojin’s regal prowess, hypnotising Chan to do nothing more than bow in his presence.

Sanguine adorns both boys’ faces, colouring them fucked. Chan’s hands map out Woojin’s chest, caressing every path of ivory they can reach. Woojin’s head is hitting the hard, marmoreal bench beneath him, a dull thud, and even though it hurts like hell, it’s everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s dreamed of. And if Chan didn’t know Woojin so well, if this really was the first time, then he’d stop, freak out, ask if Woojin was okay, and apologise a thousand times. But Woojin’s moans are a symphony he’s known for a long time, and he knows he likes it, just like this, _dirty, rough, real, honest_.

They haven’t indulged in the sex of newlyweds for awhile, but tonight Woojin’s going to see to it. So he sits up, Chan’s dick slides out, his hands push hard against Chan’s washboard abs, pushing him back, and Woojin’s willing to give this fantasy away, for just a second. “I want you to fuck me like you did in Venice, on that dodgy boat we rented out. You bent me over the railing, and all I could see was crystal blue. Your hands wrapped around my chest, around my neck, and you took me from behind. And although I couldn’t see your face, I could still see its beauty mirrored forever in the water.”

“Fuck Woojin, why do you do this to me, you know what your words cause. It’s too much!” In an alacritous motion, Chan turns Woojin around, and in another haste second, Woojin’s face meets the cold kiss of marble. Bent forward he offers Chan with all he has, in his purest form, he’s stripped back to the bone, and Chan knows anything and everything about Woojin, knows all his secrets.

“I remember, I remember everything! Can still hear your beautiful, lewd, downright pornographic moans. Can still see the droplets of sweat dripping down the back of your neck, feel you clenching so tight around me, so fucking tight! I can feel it now!” Chan slides back in with the look of utter bliss engraved upon his face, another sculpture of art Woojin wants forever on display.

Sweat’s running down Chan’s neck, down his back, small droplets kissing their way down firm abs. One hand presses flush against Woojin’s back, the other trails his cheek. He adds a slight pressure, willing for Woojin to melt away into the blasted marble he was so insistent on buying, knows Woojin wants to. The sharp carve of marble cuts deep into Woojin’s hips as Chan drives into him from behind, his arms are splayed out over the snow of white, bidding in vain attempts to grasp something, knuckles painted red. Chan leans down, head hovering over Woojin’s own, his hot breath conveying him into a delirious state. 

“Are these the memories you wanted to be reborn? Is my cock the match to the fire you ache for?”

“You’re the match Chan, every part of you is the match.”

Chan’s indulged Woojin for as long as he can remember, but it’s been a while since he’s been this fervid, had this much voracity burning through his eyes. His hands find Woojin’s cock once again, enclasping it in a warm grasp, stroking it through unwritten, unspoken love.

“Do you still love me like you did back then, Woojin? Do you still need me?”

Woojin’s head turns further, craning his neck back at a painful angle, just enough to look the younger in the eyes. “I’ll always need you Chan, always.”

Reservations are buried under reassurances, and Chan’s moving faster now, so fast Woojin can hardly breathe. Hitting the right spot over and over again, Chan’s keeping Woojin alive through ecstasy. 

Woojin’s moans are paramount to the quiet ticking of a clock, and the sweet melody of birds chirping outside. And when they heighten in tempo to strained gasps, Chan knows Woojin’s close, on the brink of collapse. His hands desperately lurching forward to grip the edge of the bench, head pulling up at a painful angle, his eyes roll back, and his mouth falls open in ecstasy. Curling through his stomach are a swarm of butterflies, a raging inferno, it spirals around and around until it descends, snaking a path down, till it comes out in spurts of pearly white. Decorating the bench in ivory, Woojin honours his beloved marble, paints the picture he’s always wanted to paint, since the first time he laid eyes on those cold temptations, since the first time he laid eyes on Chan.

He’s falling too, Chan. Falling through the stars, falling through the sky. He comes with a loud drawn out moan of Woojin’s name, the added stutters in between leaving the younger male floating on cloud nine.

“Chan, fuck!”

“Hmm, my thoughts exactly, _fuck_.”

He pulls out, leaving an absence in Woojin’s marrow, though it’s soon sated through the strong, warm arms of Chan, pulling him up and wrapping him in a tight hug. Nestling into each other’s neck, Woojin can feel every spent breath leaving Chan’s lips, every taste of felicity. Chan can feel it too, every stutter leaving Woojin’s tired soul, every shudder of complete satisfaction. Chan untwines himself from their flourish of reverence. His eyes meet chocolate brown, and Woojin’s looking at him with such idolatry, he feels as if he’s bathing in a seventh heaven.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

An erstwhile smirk returns to Chan’s lips as he pulls up his pants, returning to a character that had been lost to fevered lust. For this fantasy, this story, needs an end, even if Chan never wants it to.

“I must say Mr. Kim, you’ve made quite the mess here, haven’t you? And all over your nice, clean marble bench tops too.”

Grinning, Chan reaches out a firm hand, placing it against Woojin’s soft cheek, caressing it in a loving, but teasing manner.

“And Mr. Kim I may be a plumber, but I’m no janitor.”

In the time it takes for Woojin’s eyes to blink away confusion, Chan’s already halfway to the front door, and when he reaches it, he glances back at Woojin, who still stands with his pants and underwear pooled at his feet, a dazed expression carved upon his face. 

“Call me again, Mr. Kim.”

“Call me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part's named after the classic Fatboy Slim song, 'Praise You'.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Third part will be out soon.


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